Years
by AMRainer
Summary: He's just a random rascal, she's just careless. And that's how it all starts. 1994 AU.
1. 1994

**HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY! And finally, I'm posting the first chapter of my favorite piece, really, I hope you guys enjoy this story as much as I do. I already have most of it written down and thanks to Lorena I have muse enough to finish it. This is dedicated to LetMeWalkTheEarthWithYou, for inspiring me with The Blue Skies We Wait On (obviously I'll never be as good as you but maybe in a dream lol).**

 **Thanks to Hannah for the beta, ily!**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing otherwise this would be real 200%**

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 **ADULT THEMES AND LANGUAGE AHEAD! DON'T READ IF NOT SUITABLE!**

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1994

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Darkness floods the room, the soft shimmer from the rail outside being the only thing keeping some sort of light in there. It's a cheap motel – the same, always the same – away from the Ambassador's house, away from reality and the world and his wedding band and her morals.

His mouth ghosts her collarbones, only to allow herself a spare moment before he pounds into her. She's different, so different from anyone he ever had. Alabaster skin, full breasts, mouth asking to meld with his. There's a shadow flickering in her doe eyes as they shoot up at him.

God, she's beautiful. And he's a bastard, drawing her closer to her high with hard strokes, hips pressing until his large palm claws her muscled thigh regardless of his short nails. She's keening and angled, his swollen head reaching that particular spot within her that he found to be ever so tender.

A smirk graces his features, sweat covers their bodies and the raven-haired woman whips her head back, orbs locking on the upside down image engraved in the mirror. Pupils dilated, his lover stilling as he feels her walls convulsing around him, parted plump lips turn into a loud scream, chant his nickname that she proudly mustered as he sucks yet another mark on her porcelain neck.

There's a brief moment of plainness, of fog clouding her reeling mind before he resumes his thrusts until he shudders above her, nibbling her earlobe and emitting a cacophony of desperate curses. The ever so by the book man has quite a dirty mouth, she noticed in their first night together.

It's amusing, just as much as the way he slips out of her with an displeased groan caught in his throat, the hollow he leaves and the warm wetness that runs down her thigh being a raw blend of him and her and how bold it's been just everything they tried so far.

Hotch rolls onto his back until he's prone beside her, staring up at the ceiling and his feet touching the headboard if he shifts an inch lower. Because she fucking hates the rules, and he loves the game so he willingly follows her every whim.

Nimble female fingers close around the white package, index and middle of the opposite hand possessing a cigarette. In her uncomfortable position, back arched as she tries to tap around the carpet for the lighter – she left it there, somewhere nearby the mess of clothes scattered nonchalantly in the precinct.

And she finds it, lights her first as her body hastily slides until her scalp is lying on the thin mattress again. He's still lost in thought, breathing slower now and she can't help but to watch him an instant longer. His lean, muscular frame naked and exposed to her, his dazed features softer than the usual scowl he has while on the job, skin flushed and warm and that film of sweat matching hers.

Female leg slings over his hip until she's straddling him, the black ink on her hip and rib cage begging for his attention as his large palms rest and run over her white skin. He shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be with her bare womanhood dripping and pressed to his lower stomach. But he is, and there's a wicked sense of victory in eyes when she lets the smoke out through her nose, earning a low chuckle from the older man.

"Does she fuck better than I do?" it's an explicit question – although everything about them has been far away from appropriate.

"Shut up", he cups the back of her neck, pulls her into a deep, lazy and exploring kiss. There's nicotine on her lips and he loves every minute of it, every waver of her taste – sweet from the bubblegum she had before, the salty musk from his cock and the peppery from the cigarette. "I want you wild"

Her mouth stretches in a sly grin before she grips his jaw, infinite eyes bored into his face as light licks their frames through the barely curtained window. She cants her hips, feels him slide between her nether lips as he starts to spring back into life.

Emily blows the smoke slowly, digging her nails in his jaw so he breathes in what she lets out and wafts it into the haze surrounding them. "You can't handle"

"If I couldn't, my knees wouldn't be grazed from screwing you in the library last night", he's blunt, almost harsh in his statement whilst his hands squeeze her ass, grinding her onto him as though to bring him to the point she needs him again. "Or your throat wouldn't be sore due the screeching. You always put on a show"

She fakes offence, smacks his upper arm as her body moves to a straight sitting position. Her mouth hits the roll once more, apparently more interested in a random vague spot in the room. Then she crawls off him, off the bed too until she's sitting in front of the mirror, legs scantily placed so one foot is flat on the floor while the side of her other leg lies in front of her to shield her glistening core from full display.

Her partner rolls onto his stomach, watches her with his chin on the end of the bed and his strong arms hanging, calloused digits drumming on the ground. There's silence, comfortable and lingering while she stares at no one but herself. It's exhilarating. It's fucking insanity and she's very much on edge.

"Do you think I'm worthy of love?" she questions, maybe to herself, maybe to him – Aaron Hotchner doesn't know and his suddenly ever so quick wit is gone. Parts of him wonder what he should say, but overall what he _can_ say. "Obviously not"

It's a mutter, yet more of a scream as it vibrates in his ears and rings in his worn out brain. White dangles between her teeth, curtains her front with endless smoke. Then he's the one stretching his arm until his fingers comb her tousled black locks – it's not much, the place is seedy and the bed is less than three feet away from the wall.

"Look at me" his voice is husky, coaxing, and definitely the thing she could even say she loves about him.

The younger woman obliges, carefully moves until the burning paper is inches away from his nose and close enough for him to muffle a cough with the back of his hand. It makes her laugh, a titillating sound that boils his blood and spreads all over him like he's just been ignited.

He doesn't realize that she's sitting on her calves until she tosses the object aside, half done and dangerously lit up. But she likes danger, so she does it anyway and he's beyond caring. His rough palms cradle her face, thumbs caressing her high cheekbones. Then he kisses her again – this time soft and gentle and tentative.

"I do" the brunette male looks into her eyes, meeting their sudden fragility like he's just touched a half of her that has been lying quietly for longer than she can remember. She shut down her feelings a long time ago, it's not really a surprise. "Because I have"

It's a confession. And the ambassador's daughter knows he means it by the tinge of honesty that coats his hazel orbs. Emily Prentiss hates him at the moment he lets it out. Hates and loves him and wonders just what in the actual fuck she's doing sitting there on the floor, gazing at him through hooded eyes as he's talking to her on a bed that served as room to the best _fuck_ she had in a while. Incongruent, unsettling.

She doesn't answer – never does because she's young and reckless and despite the fact that she's indeed concerned about the matter, she convinces herself that there's nothing to worry about at all. He's just a random rascal, she's just careless. And that's how it all starts.

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 **Let me know what you think about this piece, please!**

 **See you next chapter :D**


	2. 1995

**Hey guys! Here we have more angst and the outcomes of the fling they had. It's pretty obvious, though, but this chapter is important for what's** **about to come - as much as the others lol - and I really do hope you enjoy it! Also, yes, I have a permanent name for their offspring because** **that's just how much of a h/p trash I am.**

 **Thanks Hannah for the beta (and for correcting chapter 1 again bc I accidentally posted the wrong version)**

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1995

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There's snow outside, cladding the entrance of her mother's house and bringing shivers up her sinuous spine – ones she's mostly uncomfortable with. Her cheeks are blushing with the weather, her leggings almost too thin as she sits by the window, legs tucked under the blanket.

She wants to be herself again but she can't. And so, that stranger sits there, silent and with her hair cascading down her shoulders. A stab of pain causes her to hiss, change her position just enough so her pelvis won't feel constricted.

"Fuck off", it's an angry rasp when her hand applies a bit of pressure to her lower swollen abdomen. "Just give me a bloody minute of peace!"

Fluffy cotton leaves her lap to wrap around her shoulders as she gets up, rapidly trailing the way to the library – she likes it there, the remembrances that come along. There's that armchair, lonely and colored with a boring maroon. Albeit she hates the offending furniture, it's the image of him taking her right there, eight damn months ago, that makes her nestle in the comfy spot. It's almost like she can see his tongue working between her legs, lapping on her nub and his damned grazed knees by the moment he tugged her down to the cold wooden floor.

The soon-to-be mother knows she needs to brush it aside, needs to just ignore his existence regardless of the fact that there's a fracture of him growing within her. Another kick to her stomach and she yelps, wondering just why the fuck she trusted a stranger. Perhaps because she is one, perhaps because in the end he was just the mere reflection of her.

A broken meaningless mess. _Huh, it fucking rhymes, how ironic._

Her hand rubs circles, tries to soothe the sharp wave of pure pain that has been washing down her lower back ever since she woke up. There's a random book, she flips through the pages, tries to focus but, if she has to be honest with herself, she can't do much other than shift uncomfortably for what it feels like the nth time. There's something wrong, she's aware. Parts of her wonder whether she should look for someone from her mother's staff to take her to a hospital.

In the end, she bottles up the feeling until it's unbearable, until she's barely breathing and the winter turns into a raging summer to her skin. It's hot, suffocating, that cold film of sweat taking away any possibility to carry on with the situation. She knows what's happening, knows from the changing shape of her rounded stomach to the increasing pressure between her legs - _pain_ , it hasn't been pressure for a while now.

Despite any of this, the younger Prentiss manages to stand up, takes step after step and tries to ignore the pathetic way she has to brace herself on the staircase's handrail. There's a desperate hiss between gritted teeth and her eyes shut, small glimmering spots forming in front of her hooded dark irises. It takes her a while to realize that a hand is on the small of her back, that she's not on her feet anymore, that strong masculine arms are carrying her to somewhere.

Maybe she has passed out, maybe. Her last remembrance is a pair of hazel eyes in turmoil, lost and shattered and just as amazed as she is to find him right then and there, in the middle of the hell of her life. She's faintly awake when she hears him calling for the wheelchair or how Bertha is walking right after them with hurried steps, clanking her not so high heels while people are taking her to meet the unwelcome smell of antiseptic and blood.

Then it's all blacked out, her mind drifting and her body is not moving an inch further. Yet, she feels him, feels the way he covers her hand with his, feels the way he's silent but breathing nearby her ear – also, the honest way he loses his breath at the sight she's only capable of hearing. A loud cry is all she can muster before he's pulled away from her, before she's completely a goner.

Emily Prentiss misses many of _her_ small firsts, misses some of _his_ firsts too. Most of all, she misses the way he watches her in forced slumber at that hospital room like she's given him the world - and how desperately searching for his warmth the world is, snuggled into him, wrapped in a beige blanket and wearing a sensibly colored onesie that he dressed her with right after her first bath.

"Do you think you can handle it?" her nanny's voice echoes through the room, reaching her ears a minute afore her eyes flutter open. Silence lingers as she watches a small bundle nestled against his chest and his smoldering eyes looking as peaceful as she's ever seen before.

"Yes, I can take care of them, don't worry" a mere whisper, meaningful, soft and gentle as it is. Bertha's presence is just a faded remembrance a second later, for he notices the gleam that's bored into him and his small fracture.

His short stride towards her feels never-ending. It's long enough for her to eye the bags under his eyes, a shade darker with weariness, the tense line on his forehead as he wonders how to properly keep the vow he just uttered to the other woman. They are young, bold and reckless, regardless of how it all seems so little compared to the life he places carefully in her arms.

Brown eyes drown into browner eyes, reflecting their natural gypsy glint that shoots daggers to her youth and plagues her mind with _'what now?'_. She's terrified, that natural smile that creeps on her features disappearing along with the tear that is wiped by his calloused thumb.

"I've got a job opportunity in Seattle" there's an implicit question to his affirmation, an indirect explanation to why he came back to the Ambassador's after almost a semester and a half – after she's finished her graduation and has no _fucking_ clue what to do about it as she holds her three day old daughter (that's what the almost empty white bracelet on her small wrist reads at least).

"What's her name?" brown meets hazel, hope meets loss and it's a quest for whatever is coming forward. She briefly realizes the lack of a wedding band, briefly realizes that she's just ruined one more thing in life – as if destroying herself does not suffice.

He's staring at her, thinking, wondering. Perhaps even searching for something on her pale expression. It comes with a void, with a flicker of why she's about to oblige and why Aaron Hotchner is the perfect escape to this whole ordeal she let herself dig in. Parts of her are sorry – because she knows there's something else there, and that even without the heavy load of _their_ child on his shoulders, he came back to offer her a way out of hell.

"Rosie" his faint smile, the quick widen of his lids catch her attention "Her name is Rosie _Hotchner_ "

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 **Please, let me know what you think about this chapter! And I'm sorry for the delay - ffn didn't let me post but this chapter has been on AO3 for a couple of days now, follow me there toooo.**

 **See you next chapter!**


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